


Seven Days Until Absolution

by Kyatto



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Alternate Reality, BDSM, M/M, S&M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-05-10
Updated: 2010-05-10
Packaged: 2018-04-09 17:12:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,553
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4357523
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kyatto/pseuds/Kyatto
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Master finds out the real reason why the Doctor wanted to keep him on the TARDIS. And what the Doctor wants, what he needs, only the Master can give.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Seven Days Until Absolution

The first day, the Master is skeptical – dubious of the Doctor’s proposition. Was this the same man – no, the same Time Lord -who decided to keep him prisoner? Or even worse – keep him as a godforsaken pet. He supposes he should be grateful to Handsome Jack for taking the gun from little Lucy’s hand just as she was about to shoot. But he isn’t. It would have been an easy, perfect way to go. For there was no way he would take his own life himself. 

’I forgive you.’

The Master doesn’t want forgiveness, doesn’t need it. It was the last thing he wanted to hear. Yet it seemed to be what brought them to this current situation. He’s alive, after all. The Doctor was supposedly ‘merciful’ enough to spare his life. 

Then again – this is the Doctor. Who just so happens to be almost as good a manipulator, a chess master, as he. Of course there are multiple intentions behind keeping the Master around. On any normal day, the Doctor would not have hesitated to see him dead or imprisoned. Why is now so special? Why is the Doctor so willing to be constantly in danger by keeping both his former friend and sworn enemy around him for the rest of their lives? Because of the Time War. Because of his survivor’s guilt.

Because he seeks absolution.

Once the special cuffs are in place and miss Martha Jones and the Freak are returned to their respective homes, the Doctor returns his attentions to the Master once more. The cuffs are designed so if the Master ever strays too far from the Doctor, they send out deafening sonic waves that send the drums on a migraine-inducing rampage – so painful that it renders him completely disarmed. Of course the Doctor would only cause him pain and not kill him. For death would still be an escape. The Doctor doesn’t want that. He doesn’t want to be alone. 

The Master leans against one of the TARDIS corals while eying the Doctor begrudgingly. His arms are folded across his chest and he refuses to outright meet the other Time Lord’s gaze. He doesn’t even flinch when he hears the engines groan as the TARDIS takes off. Admittedly, after all that just happened, he doesn’t blame the Doctor for wanting to leave 21st Century Earth. Any idiot could see the place is a hole. What better reason for wanting to destroy it? 

He doesn’t care when the TARDIS settles in their new location, and makes no attempt to go to the door. However, he is a little perturbed by the fact the Doctor makes no move towards the exit either. As if he just took them somewhere to merely keep the TARDIS parked while he went about other endeavors. This doesn’t sit well with the Master at all. There is no telling what the Doctor might have planned. 

“We’re the only two left,” the Doctor finally says after what feels like hours of silence but is really only minutes. “I’ve no one else.”

“How perceptive of you,” the Master shifts a little to get more comfortable. 

“You can help me,” the Doctor’s tone is quiet and perhaps even a little desperate. He eyes the Master warily. 

“With what, exactly?” the Master spits, returning the Doctor’s look with a glare. “You’ve won. I’m your ‘pet’ now. What else do you want?” 

The Doctor steps closer until there is only a foot separating the two of them. “You can help me.” He repeats. “I did some terrible things… Things you’ve probably dreamed of doing for a rather long time. But I’m not like you. It hurts.” 

“What’s the got to do with me, exactly?” the Master arches a brow, torn between curious and skeptical. 

“I’ve had to live with this for years,” the Doctor explains, his tone weak. “I can’t… I don’t want to go about it alone anymore. I need peace. I need resolve. I need…”

A beat. They meet each other’s eyes again, only this time their expressions are similar. It’s a fleeting moment of mutual understanding.

“I need absolution.” 

“I know exactly what you need, what you seek,” the Master nods agreeably. He pushes himself off from the coral and steps forward so he’s only a breath away from the other Time Lord. His gaze remains fixed on those dark, ancient eyes that have seen as much pain and chaos as his own. “You want me to punish you for your crimes.” 

“…Yes,” the Doctor replies, the answer barely even a whisper. He lowers his head. 

The Master notices this small act of submission but refuses to look as smug as he feels. “…I’ll think about it.”

The Doctor watches as he walks off down the corridor to find a room for himself.

~*~

 

The second day, the Master is still thinking about the situation. Still mulling over the Doctor’s idea. It seems despite his own past crimes, the TARDIS has a merciful heart. His room, while by no means luxurious, is livable. And she was kind enough to give him a lock for privacy. This proves useful, as he takes comfort in knowing he has all the time in the universe to keep to himself while he figures everything out. For this is not an offer to take lightly. 

The Doctor wants to be punished. He wants to be used, abused, and humiliated. To feel enough physical pain to match his own emotional turmoil. And he wants it at the hands of the Master – another Time Lord. It’s only fitting that this a service he alone would have to be the one to provide; it wouldn’t be the same coming from a human. 

Most importantly, the Doctor wants to be broken.

This excites the Master more than he would like to admit.

~*~

 

The third day, the Master has finally reached a decision. He agrees to help the Doctor, but only if he can do exactly as he pleases without any objections at all. The Doctor must comply with every last thing he wants to do to him. Naturally, he’s got enough mercy to draw the line at death and regeneration. For now. However, everything else isn’t up for debate. The Doctor merely nods his agreement. It’s enough consent to work with. 

There is a room set up, dark and bare, with nothing more than a single chair placed at the center. The chair has straps adorning the arms, legs, and back, meant to be used to hold the seated in place. This is definitely something the Master can use to full capacity. Though he is rather surprised the TARDIS would willingly construct such a room. She must care enough about the Doctor to know just how badly he needs this. That he won’t ever settle until he feels cleansed of his metaphorical sins. And who better to do it than his own personal savior – his lord and Master? No one. 

Without saying anything, the Doctor strides over to the chair and takes a seat. Also silently the Master steps over and meticulously straps him down until he can barely even writhe. The most he can do is turn his head, flex his hands and feet. Even so, he makes the choice to remain completely still – his eyes fixed straight ahead. For a moment, the Master is displeased that the Doctor isn’t putting up some sort of fight. Then again, he knows full well how badly the Doctor wants this. It’s not some elaborate scheme the Master concocted, which is something he has to keep reminding himself of each time he notices just how helpless and at his mercy the Doctor looks. If this were on the Master’s terms, there was a likelihood he would have heard colorful swears from every known language in the universe right about now. Part of him misses the thrill of the chase, the capture, and the fight. The rest merely delights at the beautiful sight before him. 

“Tell me, Doctor,” the Masters says in a low, silky tone. He slowly circles the restrained Time Lord, his hands folded behind his back. “Why are you here, exactly?” 

The Doctor is quiet, and then swallows. “I’ve done something terrible. One of the worst things imaginable.”

“And what might that have been?” 

“I destroyed Gallifrey, our home,” the Doctor replies softly. His eyes are wide, glistening with pained tears he refuses to let fall. “Watched entire civilizations fall and die. At my hands.” 

“Mm,” the Master murmurs and leans in so close his lips brush against the shell of the Doctor’s ear, his breath warmly tickling his skin. “And tell me, Doctor, how did that make you feel? To play God and decide the ultimate fate of your people? Did it feel good? Did you enjoy watching everyone and everything burn?” 

The Doctor swallows again, not even bothering to shift his gaze. “No.”

The Master’s tongue darts inside his ear for a fleeting moment, cool and wet. “How did it feel?” 

“Words cannot even begin to describe it,” the Doctor’s answer is firm and final. His eyes flutter closed, as if that is the only way to properly contain everything he feels. 

The Master knows what the Doctor means. He obligingly touches their foreheads together and allows the Doctor to open the telepathic link. The drums roar angrily in his head, as they always do whenever the Time War is mentioned. But he doesn’t back down – he refuses. Within seconds, hot flash after searing hot flash floods his mind at speeds faster than his own heartbeats: Daleks, Time Lords, and everyone and everything in between – screaming, burning, and dying. Space ships, battle ships, mighty fortresses and empires - erupting in bursts of white-hot flames. Entire cities crumbling to the ground in a cloud of blood-red dust and ash. A rather lovely Gallifreyan woman – presumably the Doctor’s wife – and his children, Exterminated before his eyes. Lady President Romana trapped in the flames. The War Chief and the Rani crushed under falling rubble. His friends - their friends, fighting until their inescapable deaths. And then the murderous roar of Rassilon himself as Gallifrey, the remains of Skaro, and the Time War is sucked away into oblivion – trapped for eternity in a Time Lock. 

Gasping for breath, the Master jerks away – his eyes wide. Sweat beads across his forehead where they touched. The drums are louder than ever before, his head is still pounding. So much pain, so much guilt the Doctor locks away deep inside himself. There is so much rage and so much fear. It’s overwhelming. The Master would almost find it in himself to have some mercy, some sympathy, but he remembers the Doctor seeks punishment for what’s happened. That he wants absolution, not pity. He is glad the Doctor’s eyes are still closed so he can’t see the pained look on his face. The Master quickly regains composure and grabs the Doctor by the hair, pulling his head up. There is no sympathy for a devil. 

“Poor, poor Doctor,” the Master croons with a mocking pout. The words are bittersweet. “You tried so very hard to save them. You’d even like to think of it as a mercy killing. But you and I both know better, don’t we?”

The Doctor’s eyes open to meet his gaze and he lets out a breath he didn’t realize he had been holding.

The Master gives his head a good yank. “Answer me.”

“…Yes,” the Doctor replies after a quiet pause. 

“Yes…” the Master’s nails dig into his scalp. “What?”

“Yes…” Swallow. “…Master.”

“Good,” the Master loosens his grip and steps back, pleased with this development. “Glad we’re both finally on the same page.”

The Doctor watches as the Master walks off to a corner so dark he can’t make out what he’s doing. Moments later the Master returns, holding a beautiful thirty-two inch cane made from Bloodwood and Wenge. It’s sleek with a slight curve at the end and a handle that fits perfectly in the Master’s grip. Even though his expression is serious, there is an almost feral look in his eyes. He fondly strokes the cane as he goes back to circling the Doctor, looking at him the way a lynx stares down a wounded rabbit. The Doctor chews his lip, his gaze now locked and following the other Time Lord. 

“Must admit, your TARDIS has very good psychic perception,” the Master says calmly as he continues his slow, deliberate pacing around the chair. “She knew exactly what I was looking for. It’s as if it had been made specifically for me.” 

The Master speaks again before the Doctor has a chance to respond. “Are you ready for your first round of punishment? Though – even if you weren’t, you’re in no position to argue.”

The Doctor gives a small nod in response. It’s silent consent. He’ll take it. 

The Master props the cane against the back of the chair, as he needs both hands free for what he’s going to do. He steps around to the front of the Doctor and undoes his tie. It comes off with ease and he lets it hang loosely over his shoulders as he makes quick work of the buttons holding together the suit jacket and shirt underneath. When he feels there is enough skin exposed the Master reaches around to grab his cane. He takes a step back to get the right distance as he decides where to start. The Doctor merely stares at him, his expression blank and emotionless. 

There is no warning at all, only silence, when the Master begins. A loud whistling in the air as the he draws the cane behind himself and gives a good clean swipe across the back of the Doctor’s exposed wrist. The Doctor’s fingers clench, but he hardly winces, and only sucks in the tiniest of breaths. This wouldn’t do. The Doctor wants pain. If he wants to hurt so damn badly then he’s going to have to express it. Again, the Master draws it back and brings it down even harder this time. A loud crack echoes in the empty chamber. But the Doctor is still and silent. He repeats this motion a dozen times on each hand. He does it until the skin flares bright red and again until it settles to violet. The force is enough to bruise, badly at that, but just shy enough to avoid shattering bones. He knows he’ll need the Doctor’s hands in tact at a later time. However, he still gets little reaction. This is starting to irritate him.

The Master moves on and starts striking the Doctor’s shoulders and chest. The cracks are loud and piercing in the silence of the room. It brings out a raw, powerful sort of dominant feeling in the Master. A maniacal grin flickers across his features for a moment. He continues at a frenzied rate until the Doctor’s shoulders, chest, and abdomen are the same shades as his hands. Tiny cuts break out in the spots where the Master hits just a little too hard. They should sting, and the Master knows they do, but there is next to nothing coming from the Doctor. His eyes are locked on the Master and nothing else. The only sign that he’s alive is that he can see the small rise and fall of his chest to show his breathing. Otherwise, he might think he killed him without even realizing. 

This only serves to frustrate the Master more so. If the Doctor wants this so badly then why isn’t he expressing it? Why isn’t he reacting? Is he trying to show that despite getting what he wants, he still has the will to stand up to him? Just what kind of power play is this supposed to be? Growling out of annoyance, he picks up speed and his aim grows more haphazard. Faster and harder he whips the Doctor with the edge of the cane, until more of his skin is purple than pale, and blood smears across his chest and stomach in thin stripes. The more still and quiet the Doctor is, the more enraged the Master becomes.

It reaches the point where the Master can no longer hold back, and he strikes him hard across the face. Back and forth and up, the cane crashes against his cheeks and jaw. The tiny gasps for air as he is struck is still not enough to satisfy. Soon the Doctor’s face is just as bruised, cut up, and swollen as the rest of him. A dark purple, almost black ring forms around his right eye. When the Master stops to catch his breath, the Doctor turns his head to spit out some blood. The Doctor resumes his gaze upon the Master, his now split bottom lip dripping blood down his chin. Roaring out of sheer frustration, the Master swings away at him, hitting every last inch available whether exposed or not. He is so desperate to get a reaction, a verbal confirmation that this is right. 

When his arms tire, and his rage too much to contain, the Master throws the cane to the ground where it hits with a resounding clatter. He lunges at the Doctor then, and his hands close tightly around the other Time Lord’s now heavily sensitized neck. A wild, animalistic look gleams in his eyes, and he pants haggardly through gritted teeth, nostrils flaring. If he were to increase his hold just a little more it would be enough to cut off circulation and snap bone. In an instant the Doctor would be dead in his arms. And he is so tempted to do that now. Because surely, absolutely, the Doctor would have to react to that. But the Doctor meets his gaze, and it’s no longer emptiness he sees. Instead there is a look of pleading desperation in his eyes. The Doctor is silently begging him to not give in to the instinct. It’s difficult, as the drums so very much love the idea of death. They have been taking a great thrill at the beating and the bloodshed. And it would be so easy to give in and give them what they want. But the emotion behind the look is too much to bear, and the Master’s grip loosens. He steps back, panting heavily, and he doesn’t notice until now just how much he’s sweating. The crisp white shirt he wears underneath his suit clings damply to his skin and his hair is matted to his forehead. 

Without a word the Master turns on his heel and leaves the room. The sound of the door slamming shut behind him sends a shiver through the Doctor’s broken flesh. He makes no attempt to free himself.

~*~

 

The fourth day, the Master doesn’t return to the chamber. He won’t admit it aloud, even to himself in the privacy of his room, but the way the Doctor stared at him while he received his beating was haunting. It was as if he had whipped away the life out of him. Or perhaps the Doctor’s grief really is far worse than any physical pain could compare. He thought it would bring him pleasure to see the Doctor’s nearly perfect body destroyed by his hand. It does to some extent. But it also frightens him.

He decides that leaving the Doctor alone with his wounds for a day is his own personal punishment. To show the Doctor how he felt when he escaped the war. So the Doctor will know what it feels like to be abused, cold, and lonely. To be left alone in the silence with only his thoughts for company. Perhaps he had even managed to finally beat the drums into that thick skull of his. He can only hope. The TARDIS knows better than to provide him with any comforts right now. He wants this; he craves it. Any punishment the Master dishes out to him he takes in hungrily, nearly insatiable. Each different degree of misery he suffers brings him a step closer to his redemption. 

So the Master spends the day enjoying the comforts of his room while debating what course of action he should take tomorrow. 

~*~

 

The fifth day the Master returns to where he had last left the Doctor. It almost surprises him to find that he is still there. Of course, he looks a complete mess – his hair filthy and matted, dried blood staining his face and chest, the rest of his skin in varying shades from yellow to red to violet. His head is hung low but when he hears the Master approach he rises. The look in his eyes is no longer empty. There’s a hint of desperation in there – a hint of need. He’s getting closer. 

In the Master’s hand he holds a long slender candle and a lighter. The candle is bumpy and the color of an apple. Perhaps the Master chose this one specifically because the color reminds him of Gallifrey. Or maybe of blood. This candle is special, however. It’s not an Earth candle. The wax comes from very different sort of bee from galaxies away. The wax of the candle burns hotter than the flame itself. Hot enough that untrained flesh would sizzle at even the smallest touch. It is why the Master wears thick leather gloves. For it would be painful enough to even harm him. 

The Doctor eyes the candle and his brows raise a fraction of a centimeter. His eyes show the tiniest hint of intrigue. It’s enough for the Master.

“Do you know what this is for?” the Master asks calmly. He is circling the Doctor once more, slowly twirling the candle around between his fingers. 

The Doctor worries his swollen bottom lip and shakes his head.

“It’s for Gallifrey,” the Master replies, his tone nearly venomous as he hisses out the words. “So you can feel how it burnt. So you know just how it felt for our people. Our people who were engulfed in flames at your hand.” 

Oh, the drums positively love this. The beat in his head is almost a happy one. Fire, glorious fire, it smells of delicious warfare. And how he’ll just love to see the Doctor burn. Burn at his hand, so he could have just the tiniest taste of what it felt like to send the Time Lords to hell. They are so excited that he doesn’t even realize he started tapping the familiar rhythm against the back of the chair. He stops himself quickly and whirls around to catch the Doctor’s eye. The drums never betray him. They’ve always adored seeing the Doctor looking a mess. His grin is toothy and he takes pleasure in the small shudder the Doctor makes at getting such a look. 

“Yes, you, Doctor,” the Master continues, leaning in so their faces are almost touching. “Poor, pitiful Doctor. You had to watch in horror as Gallifrey below erupted in a sea of fire. Listened to their screams of burning agony. Well, it’s your lucky day! I’m allowing you a taste of your own medicine.”

In all honesty it’s more so than just Gallifrey that he chose this particular method of torture. This punishment. Gallifreyans were never overly fond of it – such means of corporal discipline were seen as primitive. But it does seem to fit the crime and then some – short of actually setting the Doctor on fire, that is. The Master has other reasons though. He couldn’t help but be bothered by the Doctor’s silence and stillness during the caning. The caning that left him the battered and bloody mess he now sees before him. No. The Doctor wants pain. He needs to know what the Doctor feels. It’s not enough to see it, he wants to hear it. He wants to make the Doctor scream. The wax will be so hot – more than twice their core body temperature. It is sure to cook the flesh right off. If the Doctor doesn’t react to that then he might as well just be dead already.

“Shall we?” The Master pushes the Doctor’s shirt and jacket off his shoulders, exposing just a little more non-battered flesh. 

The Doctor nods again, his eyes, now wide and pleading as opposed to emotionless, lock with the Master’s. His tongue flicks out to lick at the cut on his lip. It’s an improvement. 

The Master quickly lights the candle and pockets the lighter. With his free hand he tangles his fingers in the thick, messy hair and pulls his head to the side to expose his neck. He watches as the other Time Lord’s Adam’s apple bobs while he swallows, and he can almost see his pulse of four beating rapidly. Chuckling lewdly, he holds the candle a few inches above his neck and waits for the wax to melt. The Doctor’s eyes dart between the flaming wick and the Master’s intent gaze upon the task at hand. About a minute later a decent sized drop falls. It lands with a gratifying sizzle on the juncture where the Doctor’s neck meets his shoulder. A thrill courses through the Master as the Doctor actually winces at the sensation, letting out a sharp little hiss. This is going to be beautiful.

Another drop, a thicker one, slides down the stick and falls. It splatters across the Doctor’s collarbone. A tiny puff of steam rises from his skin, and the Doctor squirms. It’s a tiny, miniscule movement. But any movement, any reaction is better than none. The Master watches as the candle really heats up. Minutes later drop after drop falls. Each one lands with a sizzle or a hiss as it hits the Doctor’s flesh. They splash across his neck, collarbones, shoulders, and the top part of his chest. The already abused skin starts to crack and peel after a while. Several scabs ooze a little blood. 

It becomes insanely gratifying, however, when a droplet hits his nipple. At this point, the candle’s wax is so hot the Master can feel the intense heat even through his glove. When the droplet falls the Doctor actually cries out. It’s a strained cry, more like an overly long squeak. But it’s incredibly satisfying. As the burning hot wax hits the most sensitive parts of his anatomy, the Doctor hisses, gasps, and whines, straining the smallest amount against the restraints. It’s more so an instinctual reaction than an actual desire to escape, the Master can tell. The expanses of flesh that wasn’t previously marred turns a lovely shade of red, making his body look even more like a Jackson Pollock. His skin is so hot now it is practically frying. 

“This is for Gallifrey,” the Master growls in his ear as he continues to drip wax over him. “This is for your people. Your people - who you burned alive. Give in, Doctor. Burn with your people.” 

The Doctor gasps, his fists clenching so tightly his nails dig into his palms. “For… “

“For Gallifrey,” the Master repeats and a large drop of hot wax hits the lower part of the Doctor’s jaw. The Doctor recoils. 

“For Gallifrey,” the Doctor murmurs and then thrashes in his restraints as a few drops come close to hitting his eye. 

The drums simply adore this. One-two-three-four…One-two-three-four… Over and over again it floods his mind, his senses. The smell of burning flesh triggers so many thoughts, so many memories. He imagines such a stench only heightened by the millions. All the Gallifreyans who burned at the hand of the Time Lord strapped beneath him. The gasps, hisses, and high-pitched whines, not to mention the spasms of the Doctor’s body only serve to intensify his enjoyment of the situation. It looks, sounds, and smells like war. Even if it’s only a war between two and neither have an army. The drums know victory when they see it. 

Not much longer later the candle burns out. The moment the flame is gone the wax cools. With a swift motion, the Master throws the dead stick to the side. He watches as the hot, molten wax of the candle thickens and dries as it’s exposed to the cool air. The skin beneath is still red and steaming like an awful third degree burn. What’s left from previous injuries turns even uglier colors at the presence of heat. As the wax dries it cracks and peels with the dying flesh. The entire time the Doctor pants softly. 

Once the wax is dried, the Master sets to work again. In quick, fluid motions, he rips the wax off like they’re bandages. It clings to the dead skin, leaving hot yet new, live flesh in its wake. The Doctor cries out as the wax and his skin is pulled from his body. The Master pays him no mind, rather enjoying the reactions. When he’s down to the last few splotches covering part of his face, the Doctor is practically wriggling in his restraints. It’s not until every last bit is gone that he starts calming down again. 

The Master takes a step back to admire his handy work thus far. The bruises from the caning are shades of yellow and eggplant-purple, covering his chest, stomach, face, and hands. Thin cuts litter every last exposed inch of him. Several scabs have cracked and blood streaks across his skin. Where the rest of the skin was pale, it’s now red and splotchy. Scabs are starting to form over the more serious injuries. Even still, the Doctor seems to pay them little mind. He continues to watch the Master, chewing his bottom lip. 

The drumbeat…the never-ending drumbeat… It can’t get enough of the helpless Doctor strapped down before him. His injuries are practically intoxicating. The way he sits there now, breathing shallowly, his eyes wide and panicked. They dart about, as if he fears attacks from an invisible, unknown enemy. The Master can only imagine just how much pain he must be in now – even if he still refuses to show it. 

Frowning, the Master eyes the Doctor intently for the longest moment. Then he turns slowly and walks towards the door. Just as he is about to step out, he looks back over his shoulder almost reluctantly. It’s still not enough. He’s still not ready. So the Master leaves. 

~*~

 

The sixth day, the Master can no longer stand it. Those godforsaken drums had not stopped their incessant throbbing in his skull. They are much too excited by the battered, raggedy Doctor to lose speed now. Not to mention, the Master himself, even without the influence of the drums, is rather taken with the Doctor at this point. He doesn’t know too many – human or Time Lord – who could take such abuse nearly as well as that. The Doctor’s strength, and will, is rather impressive. But the Master promised that he’s going to break him. And that is just what he intends to do.

When the Master returns to the chamber, the Doctor is surprised that he is there to free him. The Master makes quick work of the restraints and pulls the Doctor to his feet. Together they make their way down the halls. They pass the Master’s room. No. Instead they go all the way down and the Master guides the Doctor into his own room, onto his own bed. For what he wants to do, he doesn’t want it to taint his own personal space. The Master is a tad too greedy for that. 

The Doctor falls back on the bed limply like a ragdoll. He peers up at the Master, breathing deeply. There’s a brief hesitation in the Master’s movements. But he’s quick to cover them up. This isn’t the time to second-guess himself. 

Perhaps he really is mad. Because lying there, beaten, battered, burned, and bloody… he finds the Doctor beautiful. His eyes are wide and so full of raw emotion, the twitching of his skin is in rhythm with his hearts, and the colors of the wounds make him look like a work of modern art. A masterpiece. His masterpiece. But he’s not complete yet. There’s the missing element. 

The Master climbs on top of the bed and none too gently pushes the shirt and jacket off the Doctor’s shoulders. It seems the other Time Lord has barely enough energy to help, lifting himself so the clothing falls behind him. The trainers and socks come off with ease. He is only a little unnerved when he undoes the Doctor’s trousers and they make a sticky noise as he removes them. It’s all the dried sweat and blood. The Doctor is so drained that despite the brief hint of embarrassment shining in his eyes, he can’t even bring himself to blush. Even still he looks up at the Master. 

Even though he looks like a disaster, the Master can’t help but be amazing. This body is truly something. So thin and so lithe, yet with just enough tone to look natural. For some reason it being covered in sores, burns, and bruises, only serves to make it even more enticing. The Master doesn’t care if the filth caked on the Doctor gets on his own nice suit. He crawls up his body and licks at the dried blood streaked across his chest. It’s coppery and tangy, a flavor that makes him think of both life and death. The drums beat in agreement. 

The Doctor shivers as he feels the warm wetness of the Master’s tongue trail across his bare flesh. Again, the Master repeats the motion. He laps at the blood on his chest, at the cuts across his collarbone, at the burns along the base of his neck. The Doctor gasps as the Master nips at a bruise along his ribcage. It’s a good sound, the drums like it. So the Master does it again and again, he nips at the bruises, licks the cuts and burns. The Doctor reacts more and more, with chills and spasms at the sudden shocks of pain and pleasure. He makes low, soft, yet guttural noises. His breathing gets more ragged. He doesn’t get hard, but the Master is content to chalk it up to his body still being in a state of shock from all the abuse. Besides, this isn’t about that. This is the Doctor’s punishment, not his pleasure. 

This is the pinnacle of the Master’s act as justice. The first wave of punishment – the one with the cane… The one that gave him such lovely bruises… That was for the Doctor. It was the Doctor’s instant gratification, his personal suffering for his sins. What he wanted right from the start. The next day, when he ignored him… That was for the Master. His own small but still very personal vendetta. It was his own selfish desire for the Doctor’s suffering. To know what he felt. …And then the candle… The burning. That was for Gallifrey – they’re people. He had to suffer as they did. He had to know their pain. But this… This. This isn’t for either of them. Nor is it for anyone else. No. This is his punishment. This is the Doctor’s punishment for them. Together. It’s all about who and what they are when connected. The Doctor and the Master. 

The Master sits up and looks down upon the other Time Lord. He watches as the Doctor lies there, his skin quaking with the shocks of all the sudden sensations. It’s fascinating, and he can’t help but smirk at the satisfaction that he is the one to cause it. His hands roam up and down along the Doctor’s sides, his hips, and the back of his thighs. But soon the Master grows bored and impatient. It didn’t take him long to get hard, and his arousal is pressed uncomfortably against the confines of his trousers. He parts the Doctor’s thighs to make room and rubs his clothed erection against the Doctor’s arse. The Doctor makes what has to be the sweetest sound the Master has ever heard, and he grins. His eyes fixated on the other Time Lord’s, the Master shifts just enough so he can undo his fly and tug his cock out.

He spits crudely on his palm and rubs it over his erection so that combined with his precome is enough to make it slick. There is no point in preparing the Doctor. It wouldn’t be punishment otherwise. Keeping their gazes locked together, the Master guides himself into the Doctor’s entrance and pushes until he is completely sheathed. He groans in satisfaction at the feel of the tight heat around him. The Doctor’s eyes are wide, his breaths shaking. His skin tenses and twitches. The best part, however, is what his muscles are doing. They spasm and clench ever so nicely around the erection buried deep inside him. It’s almost enough to make him come without moving at all. Almost. 

“Do you see, Doctor?” the Master growls as he starts a steady rhythm. He pulls his cock out almost all the way and then slams it back in, hard. “Do you see what you deserve?”

The Doctor doesn’t respond. He can’t. All he can do is shake, and groan. He’s well aware he gave his consent for this, days ago. He agreed the Master could do whatever he pleases so long as he doesn’t kill him. And he tries to enjoy it. But his body betrays him. He’s too lost from the pain. What could be the most important moment he’s ever shared with the Master is tainted because he’s too broken to feel it. The Master can’t see it, can’t feel it, and can’t hear it. But it breaks his hearts. So all he does is try to groan encouragingly and clench around him. It’s the most he can offer anymore.

“Do you like it?” The Master continues, his tone dark with rage and lust entwined. “To be used and abused and then tossed aside? Do you like knowing the pain you so often inflict upon others? Even when you don’t realize? This is your punishment, Doctor. It’s what you deserve. For all the trouble you’ve caused, all those years of agony. This is ours. Our equality. Our even playing field. This is what we want. What you want.” 

“But you never once stopped to think about what I want,” the Master snaps. He picks up his pace, fucking the Doctor hard and rough into the bed. “You always just got in the way. You’re a nuisance. Always spoiling my plans – my fun. You put me through so much shit and then when it comes down to it, you turn around and ask me to help you. And I do it. Because I remember - Oh how I remember… Our friendship. The days I used to bend head over arse to help you. You remember those days too, right?”

“It’s because I hate you, Doctor, that I help you,” he growls. He’s getting close, and the drumming gets louder and louder. His hips thrust in tune with the beat only he can hear. “I hate you so. Fucking. Much. You think you’re so perfect. You say you know me? Well, you know what? I know you. And I know what a damned prick you can be. All these years of torment at my expense only serve to prove it. Yet you have the audacity to expect my help after … Well. Fuck you!” 

It comes out like a cry of unbridled rage as he feels himself near his peak. The drums reach their crescendo. “Fuck you! And fuck me too! Fuck you for all the shit you put us through our entire lives. Fuck me for going along with it. Fuck you for the fact that despite all that shit you still want me - need me. And. Fuck. Me. For . Fucking. You!” 

The Master comes hard then, the drums so loud they’re blinding. His fingernails scrape up along the Doctor’s hips and thighs. A loud scream erupts from deep in his chest as he feels everything pour from himself into the Doctor. Everything he ever felt in regards to the fellow Time Lord. All the jealousy, the rage, the lust, the hate, the love… It all bursts from him and floods the Doctor in waves. His face has paled, and his eyes are wide and panicked. He can feel wetness on his cheeks – there was no way he could have been crying through that. The look on the Doctor’s face is unreadable. Or perhaps he just plain can’t understand it. 

He pulls out when he finally softens and crawls up the Doctor’s body once he’s tucked himself back in. The Doctor looks up at him, panting heavily. His eyes look so lost and confused. It’s almost heartbreaking. They’re glistening with something he can’t bring in himself to understand. The Master leans in close so their foreheads touch. Nothing but dead air between them now. After a moment and a few breaths, the Master leans closer and closer until their lips are just barely brushing against each other…

But the Master pulls away abruptly, snarling down at the other Time Lord. With a glare, he slaps the Doctor hard across the face. The sound echoes like the crack of a whip. And with that he rolls off the Doctor and off the bed. Without even so much as look back he storms out of the room. 

~*~

 

The seventh day the Master is awoken from a deep sleep. He rubs his temples and slides out from under the covers. His nostrils flare when he realizes he still reeks of sex and filth from the Doctor’s disgustingly violated body. When he retired to his room he had been much too exhausted to bathe and change. A sudden sound catches his attention. It’s almost identical to the one that awakened him.

He follows his ears out of his room and into the hall. It sounds like a wail of anguish, and sobbing. Then he remembers that he’s not alone in this TARDIS. He fucked the Doctor and left him without so much as a word. Just what he deserved. It’s what he’s done to so many others, after all. This was all about punishment. But the sounds… He could feel the emotions behind it. They claw their way at his hearts. It hurts. It hurts so much it actually stands a fair shot against the drums. 

Much to his surprise, the door to the Doctor’s room is unlocked. Whether it’s been left that way on purpose or the TARDIS wanted him to go in there he’ll never know. When he enters the room, he sees the Doctor, still naked and filthy, curled up in a fetal position on his bed. He’s rocking back in forth, shoulders heaving. His sobs are loud and echo off the walls. He’s crying. It’s the most emotion the Master has seen from him in days. 

The Master climbs up onto the bed and crawls beside the Doctor. He wraps an arm around his shoulders and pulls him back against him. The Doctor stills a moment in surprise, but he can’t fight back another sob. He buries his face against the Master’s collarbone and it doesn’t take long for the Master to feel the dampness from his tears through his clothes. It feels so real, so genuine. This is retribution. What a real, true, sincere apology from the Doctor looks like. It worms its way deep past all of the Master’s emotional barriers. It moves him.

And the Master can’t help but pull away so he can take his face roughly in both hands and kiss him. Viciously, passionately, hard on the mouth. He kisses him deeply, swallowing his sobs. Taking some of his emotional plight for his own. 

When he breaks the kiss the Doctor looks at him, eyes still wet with tears and puffy from trauma, bigger with surprise. The Master wraps both arms around him and holds him close. He doesn’t do anything when the Doctor recovers and goes back to crying, his shoulders shaking with his sobs. The Master thinks as he tries to find and equilibrium between the two driving noises flooding his mind – his drums and the Doctor’s cries. It hurts. It hurts so much He has to make it stop. Then it hits him. The answer to the Doctor’s question. The Doctor was broken. Is broken. He’s apologizing. This is the Doctor’s absolution. And he realizes the best thing for him is the one thing he doesn’t want to hear. But it’s exactly what he needs. 

The Master holds on even tighter to the Doctor. His sobbing has quieted some, but he still continues to shake. He presses a gentle kiss to his temple in an attempt to soothe him. It doesn’t matter that the Doctor shivers from agony at the contact against his sores. None of that matters anymore. He brushes his lips against the Doctor’s ear, and whispers the one thing he’s so desperately needed the most. It’s enough to make the Doctor go completely rigid, his eyes wide and deep with shock. It’s enough to make him return the Master’s embrace, despite the pain. It’s enough to make the Doctor kiss him back.

“I forgive you.”


End file.
